


Hunting

by BashfulInfidel



Series: Vignettes [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 03:30:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7343005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BashfulInfidel/pseuds/BashfulInfidel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lena goes for a night run.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunting

This is something she’ll never tire of.

Running across rooftops and through the cityscape, that is. Nothing gets her heart pumping faster, her lungs heaving harder, than the thrill of a race the security of winning which she has no certitude, in which the balance between life and death is as precarious and flitting as her attention span (empty stomach or otherwise). The sky above is vast and saturated with stars glowing pink and purple and blue and white, the night air chilly and still and carrying the waft of iron-rich sand and spinifex. It slices across her skin as she bounds off the creaky awning of a thrift shop onto the roof of a wind-battered apartment house, its windows thoroughly clouded by earthy red dust. She swings between the guttering of two cosily situated office blocks and lands for a moment’s breath on a rickety balustrade before leaping forward in pursuit once more, narrowly evading the enthusiastic bough of a neighbouring eucalypt. 

She laughs, partially in glee at her quarry’s seething hiss as they are brought to an abrupt halt to avoid being seen by a figure reaching out into the alleyway to slide shut a window, and partially at the incredibility that she’d be in this exact situation, with this same person, again, for – ah yes, the sixteenth time, now.

Lena takes the chance to puff out a heaving breath and inhale again. The air here is dry and clean, utterly unrecognisable from the smothering miasma the Crisis had left behind in Sydney (or Adelaide, for that matter), and it fills her with a new life, a new energy. Winston has always described her as sparrow-like, and true to the moniker, she is never freer than when soaring through clear skies, dancing with time.

The small window of time the distraction had brought her closes far too soon, and the chase is on once more. It doesn’t last much longer, as Widowmaker – Amélie, Lena’s mind corrects, there’s no way she can think of someone she’s rubbed off to by their field name – seems to be running short on both patience and time, and looks eager to be turning this into a showdown. Lena’s been careful to avoid her toxin bombs since their third date (let a girl dream, would you?) and there’s no chance of being tripped up by the brand of chaos Amélie has a distinct talent for cooking up; there isn’t a single two-legged figure on the streets in sight except a Labrador, and technically that’s four-legged, but Lena’s learnt not to understate this particular agent. Seeing as that could very well get her floored (literally) and straddled with a gun at her throat and a hand wrenching her head back, within seconds.

Which is not to say that isn’t as sexy. Because holy hell, is it sexy. Tall and slender with her limbs unfurling like a gymnast's as she coils from one painfully distorted position to another; the waterfall of her silk-soft jasmine-scented hair whipping as she zips into and out of and between buildings; those plush lips curled always into a cruel smirk; her fingers, long and tapered and silicone-smooth as they twist her wrists into stillness or tap her mouth shut (or smooth across her cheeks with their very backs, or scratch down her arms, or tease across her clavicle and down her chest, or slide up her inner thigh, hmm, nope, not going there) – Amélie is achingly beautiful and Lena’s cunt clenches and throbs to behold it. Her eyes are like glowing coals, unrelenting, spearing through her hot and cold with all the salaciousness of an erotic dancer, all the bloodthirst of a practised murderer.

And her voice, good god. Throaty and low, a croon on better days and a rasp on worse (and both, Lena concludes, are just fine, better than fine). Amélie has made a point of speaking to her as slowly and closely as she possibly could, indecently so, and the cold huff of her breath across Lena’s flushed, sweat-slicked skin, the husk of her voice as she all but kisses her, as she brands her with that pet name, _chérie_ – these are sensations that have sewn themselves to Lena’s nerve endings, and she’s barely had the time to catch her breath, much less stop this crush from oozing stealthily into her iron-clad fighter’s heart and weaving its sticky inextricable web.

It comes to a standstill on the topmost floor of the council building. (Too conspicuous? No, with a city as sleepy as this, it shouldn’t be a problem. There don’t look to be any helicopters in near sight, and Jesse and Genji have a handle on the two felons the Widowmaker had been spotted with, so she can risk the exposure.) She’s gotten a jump on Amélie for once – the best part of her old trick being its complete unpredictability, who cares that the assassin is well acquainted with it – and she’s managed to expertly zip them over to their compromising position, tangled and writhing violently in a knot across the unswept tiling, the only thing preventing them from tumbling over to their gruesome deaths its low, crumbling concrete ridge of a border. It’s one of those rare instances where Lena’s got Amélie under _her_ , and Amélie is certainly not making it easy, winding her body like a snake, gyrating her hips – inadvertently? – as she attempts to roll them over, effectively sprouting twenty new elbows and knees as she pushes upward and out, outraged at being held down (and this Lena can say with confidence; the desperate neurotic dread-fury that flashes across Amélie’s face when she is bound and incapacitated is something else, and were it not for the mission Lena wouldn’t dream of forcing her through that sort of agony).

Lena bears down and grits her teeth against the torturous heave of Amélie’s breasts as she hyperventilates. There’s the look of a wild beast in Amélie’s eyes, the look that tells her this will not be the night of her victory by far. She has mere seconds before the tables are turned, before Amélie slices through her abdomen or hurls her over the edge or kicks her off and grapples away onto another building.

“Hello, love,” she manages to throw out, “I think you owe me dinner for tonight.”

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, let me know if you find any spelling errors and I'll be happy to fix them up!


End file.
